I
first met Amy and her family two years ago when they had a minor rectal prolapse
problem with one of their 4-H hogs. Last year involved a few visits,
unfortunately, as they dealt with some sick pigs. Ironically, I happened to be
thinking of them the morning Amy called, and wondering if they even had any pigs
this year. Evidently, they did, but until the limping pig epidemic started a few
days before, no problems had arisen.
As I
approached their well kept farm, I saw four kids manning a “sweet corn for sale”
stand in the front yard, and when I turned into the driveway they all made a
bee-line to the barn. It was a scene I think Norman Rockwell would have
appreciated. I know I did.
When I started veterinary practice thirty years ago, I was only seven
years removed from my own 4-H days. At that time every animal, except rabbits,
going to the county fair needed a health certificate signed by a veterinarian.
In addition, hogs needed to be blood tested for a disease called pseudorabies.
Although I enjoyed the camaraderie of the kids, and the chance to relive my
youth vicariously, the work could be exhausting.
From late May until nearly September, I stayed busy preparing papers for
children from Putnam, Paulding, Allen, and Van Wert counties. That involved a
lot of driving, crawling in and out of pens, boot washing, and coverall
changing. Moreover, stooping down to get blood out of a pig is very hard on
one’s knees, and just about everything else. By the end of summer, I was ready
for the fairs to be over.
After a few years, pseudorabies was eradicated from Ohio, and the Ohio
Department of Agriculture deemed testing no longer necessary, nor was the
requirement for county fair health papers. “Yippee!” I felt like a
kid given summer vacation. I didn’t think I would ever miss those
days.
Then last year as I was walking through the aisles of 4-H and FFA animals
at the Allen County Fair, it hit me. I hadn’t a clue who most of those kids
were. Unless they had a problem earlier in the summer with their project, I
knew nothing about them, or their animals. The sense of loss was profound.
Apparently, I missed those summers with the kids more than I
thought.
At
the Stechschulte farm, my assistants were three sixth-grade boys and a
fourth-grade girl. Inside their barn, the pens were neatly arranged and
immaculate, as were the hogs. In spite of this great care, though, four of the
pigs had become lame.
Modern show
pigs have muscles of such mass and definition Arnold Schwarzenegger would be
envious. This conformation combined with the increased walking the kids do to
train the pigs in the weeks leading up to the fair, puts a great amount of
stress on the joints, especially the hock joint in the rear
leg.
I
appointed Logan to be in charge of the hog snare, a noose-like device used for
restraint, much like a twitch on a horse. He held each pig still while I took
their temperature and performed an exam. Three of the pigs had swollen hocks,
and two had a slight fever.
Our
plan was to treat each pig with an injection of Draxxin, an antibiotic used to
treat an infectious arthritis caused by Mycoplasma bacteria, and two different
anti-inflammatories. Because each drug had virtually the same dosage, was clear
as water, and my coveralls had only so many pockets, I assigned each of my other
three assistants the task of holding syringes. Abby was “Dexamethasone Girl,”
Caleb held the Draxxin, and neighbor Max handled the Banamine. As the Amish say,
“Many hands make light work,” and soon our job was
done.
Thank you, kids, for taking me back to the old days, even if it was for
just a short while. And thank you, also, for the help with your fine bunch of
pigs. It was a nearly perfect visit for this old vet. I only wish I had bought
some corn.
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